


Seeing Grey

by LadyTroll



Series: Gloryhammer Reverse!AU [4]
Category: Gloryhammer (Band), Original Work
Genre: Alternate Universe, Dark Fantasy, Don't copy to another site, Gen, Memories, Roleswap, Survivor Guilt, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, probably not medically accurate at all, reversed Gloryhammer, time to wake up the main character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-31
Updated: 2020-01-06
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:08:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22058311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyTroll/pseuds/LadyTroll
Summary: Sometimes what you need is the good, old approach of taking it slow.
Series: Gloryhammer Reverse!AU [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1540978
Comments: 11
Kudos: 11





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I think it's time to pick poor Zargothrax up from where I left him.  
> *grabs the wizard by the collar and shakes him* WAKE UP, BITCH!  
> ____________________  
> Obviously, this is about the characters, in a reverse!AU at that, NOT the band itself.

Darkness was the first thing he saw, once awake. And not just regular darkness. Oh no, it felt otherworldly, as though he had been thrown into the deepest, darkest crevice upon the world where no light even dreamt of entering, and there was slight chill in the air that threw him into unpleasant shiver. In addition, there was the smell of something that reminded of rotting leaves and earth.

He had, of course, never been in a proper dungeon before, but this was exactly how he imagined one would feel like.

Last thing Zargothrax remembered was the forest and his anger about the knife. Afterwards, his mind was blank and there were no memories left. Head once again hurt like it had been kicked by a draft horse – and he was not entirely sure he _had not_ been kicked by an equine, albeit one with a long horn on its forehead.

Right now, one thing was clear: wherever he was, this was not a forest. Not even close to a forest. There was something creaking, something dripping into a puddle already there, and somewhere far, far in the distance there was an owl hooting to its heart’s content. And nothing else. He was lying on a hard surface which added zero comfort to the situation, and the young sorcerer did not remember there being anything even remotely hard where he had last been, and, immediately after that last thought, his mind began painting pictures of scenarios one worse than the other.

_A dungeon cell._

All the hiding, all the stress, all that trek across the fields. All that – and for naught.

He had ended up in the dungeons all the same.

Maybe the peasants had noticed him and used the moment when he was distracted, to hit him over the head and deliver right to the front door of McFife’s? If the prince’s troops had sacked the Magistrate, it was highly unlikely that the Knights of Crail would have missed the lists the magisters kept. From there on, it was merely a question of time for them to figure out there was somebody they had missed. Could the news spread so fast? Or, perhaps, the soldiers had followed them and, likewise, used the moment when he was distracted. Why keep him alive, then? Why not just put a sword through his heart right there in the forest and be over and done with it? Yet again, if he, Zargothrax, were in the prince’s place, he would probably want people to see just _how_ badly it goes for those who defy him.

He had heard all about showcase executions, not to mention having seen one take place in Auchtermuchty, in person, when ridiculous fools had decided to assassinate one of the magisters.

Later that day, the would-be assassin was used as a subject in his studies, the teacher explaining how to draw all information one possibly could, from an already dead body. Very few had succeeded, and Zargothrax himself had only been able to catch a few glimpses of these memories before it all slipped away. Very few necromancers, the teacher had said, after she had closed the coffin and given the undertaker a sign to get rid of it, were in possession of this skill.

Right now, the details of execution were the ones searing into the necromancer’s memory as though it had taken place just moments ago. Every single horrifying, disgusting scene was there, including those during which he and most of his companions had averted their eyes, but which his mind now painted, straight from his imagination, in excruciating detail.

Panic struck him hard. Heartbeat hastened, and breathing became faster, as the young sorcerer decided, even despite the haze in his mind, that he was most certainly _not_ going down like that poor sod did.

He had to get up, had to do something, had to _run_. If he could get past the guards, whether or not he had to use magic on them, if he could find his way out… _if he met McFife_ , a thought rushed through his brain, one Zargothrax failed to finish before it had disappeared into the void. Even if he died during an escape, it would be better than anything they could sentence him to later.

_Get up!_

_Do something!_

_Run!_

Magic flickered and dwindled, and emptied what little reserve of it was there and _died_ in his hand, accompanied by disembodied laughter in the darkness.

\- My, my, those are some flashy spells. What a show-off you are, eh?

_He had to rise, had to get up, had to run…_

And most likely would have, were it not for something pressing onto his chest with admirable strength – or maybe it was just him who was weak like a newborn kitten? – and urging him to stay put.

\- Oi, slowly, slowly, boy, - a female voice spoke, soothingly so. – Don’t force it.

Zargothrax ceased struggling that was pointless anyway in his current state, yet the hand – for the weight turned out to be, indeed, a human hand – remained where it was, its warmth noticeable even through his shirt. The voice, the young wizard concluded, belonged to an older woman who was, incidentally, the owner of the hand as well.

\- Welcome back! I was already afraid you’d died, with how quiet you were the last couple of hours.

\- What?

The question covered everything and nothing at the same time. The woman, however, interpreted it in her own way:

\- Nightmares, I assume. Kept waking as soon as were barely asleep. I don’t think you remember much of it, not that you were all too coherent, too. Mostly just gibberish. Can’t blame ya, with all the toadgunk in Auchtermuchty. Didn’t think anyone escaped, at first. I suppose it’d be easier for us both if you also saw me. Wait a moment. _There._

The darkness was lifted with one motion of her hand, as the stranger removed the damp cloth that had been covering the wizard’s eyes, and Zargothrax’s head immediately began pounding even more.

 _A part_ of the darkness had been lifted, that was, for vision, once it did, only returned to one eye. The other refused to open, for some ridiculous reason, and, when the sorcerer reached up, he found bandages covering it.

In addition, it was chilly in here, but Zargothrax wisely decided he would worry about it later. Right now, it was vital to learn where he was and, even more important, whom he had in front of him.

Not that there was much to be seen, in the darkness. Might be a house. Might be a hovel. At the very least, it had four walls and a roof. And it was most definitely not a dungeon, for the pale light of what he presumed was the moon protruded through a window covered with a curtain, and a fireplace crackled away merrily in close proximity, its warmth and mild light spreading into the room. And the dungeon floor was actually a low wooden bed.

Yet it was still as cold as if he were sleeping in the middle of a field.

The woman seated next to him did not, to his relief, look like anyone McFifes or McDougalls would keep in their closest circles. There was not much to be seen in this light, only her posture, as she sat with her back hunched over her work. Her hands that now worked hastily, grinding what appeared, by the smell, to be roots and leaves in a small bowl, were rough and calloused from monotonous, repeating work, mastered to the degree she could do it even in such low light.

\- Who are you?

\- The peasants call me the witch in the woods. Fear me, too, even though I am the first they run to, with their ailments.

\- There is… - Zargothrax’s head just did not want to work, and words came out sluggish, - there is no such title among the practitioners of magic.

\- Of course not! I’m not magic, silly boy! I’m a healer and an herbalist. Not a fancy healer, using spells left and right. Just tinctures and salves, and the occasional needle and thread.

His head hurt. _By the gods, why did it still hurt?_

\- I don’t know what you’ve been doing with that noggin of yours, - the healer went on, as though she could read the sorcerer’s mind, - but it must have been pretty bad if you passed out on the forest floor like that. Will take a while before all that grey matter settles down. What have you been doing with it? Crushing stones? Well, not like it matters now.

\- I have to leave. If the king’s men…

\- Oi, you are going nowhere, boy! You’re in no state for that anyway. Have been in and out of it for two days. Mostly out. Even if you go anywhere right now, I’ll just have to drag you back once you’re down and knocked out somewhere in the forest. _You’re staying right where you are, young man._ And no magic! Should be easy enough, I doubt you’ve much left of it anyway at the moment. Wonder how you even got away with such injuries. Not even going to ask how you got all the way here in just one day, that’s entirely your business.

\- So, you know about Auchtermuchty? – his speech was once again becoming slurred, and Zargothrax had to slow down speaking to get the words right.

\- Only deaf people don’t, by now. What did you all think, planning an uprising? That the prince was going to sit with his hands in lap, waiting?

\- Uprising? What uprising?

\- _What uprising?_ Boy, have you fallen from the sky? The magisters were planning an uprising against the crown! Well, don’t worry, I’m not going to hand you over to them. I’ve my own bone to pick with McFifes. Weren’t happy with my husband taken, no, they had to take my son, too, the crowned bastards.

\- Sorry, - the sorcerer decided he would clear that misunderstanding up later; right now, his head stubbornly did not want to work into that direction, not to mention there were more important questions to be asked. – How did you find me?

\- Oh, that? – the village-proclaimed witch swung out of her depressive, contemplating mood at once, returning to the task at hand much rather than dwelling in the memories. – I was out and about and heard a cat meow. _Now, where could a cat come from, in this place,_ I thought. The ones living in the village know it’s dangerous to be out here all alone. So, I thought I should see what’s going on. And that’s how I found you. That little friend of yours was screaming his little cat soul out. And then I dragged you here, so you might still have some sores on your back. I’m sorry about those.

\- Why is it so cold here? – Zargothrax pulled the woollen blanket he had been given at a point he did not remember almost up to his chin, and it still felt as though cold northern wind was shaking him to the bone.

\- Oi, i’s not cold in here; you have fever, - the healer tsked. – You’re trying to fight off an infection, and that’s a task the body does not quite like. And you’re fault at it yourself! First thing you have to do is _clean the wound!_ But you just went out with all the gunk stuck to it. Know how long it took me just to scrub all the dry blood off?

\- It wasn’t… really… my priority, - it was becoming increasingly more difficult to speak; he was tired even after what this woman claimed were two days of sleep, and the words came out slow and lazy, - I was… sort of trying to… survive… at that moment.

\- Bollocks! - the woman exclaimed, mildly offended about his ignorance. – Wounds first, then everything else! You’re lucky I found you soon enough! Could have ended real sad for you! Don’t touch that! – she slapped the wizard’s hand away as Zargothrax, mostly unaware of it himself, reached up for the bandages again. – If you go poking at it, it’ll heal slower. It’s already healing at a snail’s gait, no need to punish your face more than it has been. You’re lucky that whatever hit you, missed. Could be lying in a mass grave or burning on a funeral pyre, with your skull split open, right now.

Something landed onto the bed with a soft thud, and then Goblin made his way up slowly. The cat rubbed his head against the sorcerer’s cheek, before curling up on Zargothrax’s chest as though he rightfully belonged there.

\- See? He knows what’s good for you! – the healer chuckled. – Now, if you need something, just call me. I’ll be right here, in the house.

Goblin closed his eyes and purred, and everything seemed too good and the bed too comfortable, to think about anything else at the moment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Goblin is there, and that's all that matters right now.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Coping mechanisms are not always pretty, kids.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all ready for some survivor's guilt, followed by unhealthy coping mechanisms? Why am I even asking this? _Of course you are._  
> 

Zargothrax felt sorry about everything later. By the gods, did he feel sorry for ever leaving Auchtermuchty. Sorry for not getting caught during his (quite daring) escape. Sorry for wandering into the ravine and setting the unicorn free. For riding it here and for being foolish enough to pass out what might as well be the middle of nowhere by his own standards. And he most certainly felt sorry for being found by the healer.

Had he not been found, passed out, by the healer. Had he not set the unicorn free and ridden it here. Had he not escaped the city and rather had been caught by the soldiers, the cunts of guards to take the prince’s side, or the Knights of Crail – it did not matter much, by whom – he would not have to process the things he did now. Alas, as soon as his head had cleared enough and his strength began returning, whatever was in control over Zargothrax’s feelings finally unlocked the door that had stayed closed ever since that night, and everything he had stored away so safely now came flooding in.

Had all those events not lined up like they did – at least he told himself so – the young wizard would not have to waken, late at night, sobbing like a small child about things his imagination brought along in his dreams as it forced him to relive the night again, again and again. He would not have to find himself sobbing during the day, either, to the point he felt like he was going to throw up if he continued.

He would not have to feel like his heart was being slowly and mercilessly wrenched apart by the claws of an invisible beast. He would not have what felt like a tight knot climbing up his throat, accompanied by tears that inevitably gathered in his eyes – well, the right eye, anyway, for he was not sure what was going on with the left one at the moment; whatever salves and tinctures the healer might use, they numbed any feeling in that part of his face to a point where Goblin could have been scratching at it, full strength, and Zargothrax would still be none the wiser.

He would not have had to spend the first few nights, when he had finally felt better physically, wide awake and staring into the darkness, not yet having processed everything that had taken place over the course of a single night. He would not have had to spend hours upon hours willingly numb during the day, as he had stared, stubbornly, into the wall, the only thing preventing him from banging his head against it being Goblin who had, likewise, spent most of his day curled up on the bed between him and said stone construction.

He would not have broken down, crying, the first day he actually had the spare energy to do that.

Crying was not even the right word. Once the floodgate had been opened and everything rolled back at once, what he had hoped to muffle down to suppressed sobs grew into the howls of an injured beast.

“Oh, darling, I know, I know,” the healer sat next to him then, one arm around the wizard’s shoulders, a calloused, rough hand stroking his hair, “I know.”

He would not have to learn to deal with sudden outbursts of anger; ones he both feared and could not control all too well at the same time.

He would just be dead, and he be damned if that did not feel like a good thing to happen! Had he not been such cowardly fool, had he thrown himself out there when he intended to, he would have shared the fate that was meant for him as well, just like he should have!

When Zargothrax confided in the healer about this, however, his confession had earned the young sorcerer a swift smack on the back of his not yet quite healed head and a lecture like no other.

“Fool you are!” she had spat at the end when she was done berating him. “’Fate for me as well!’ _Pah!_ Learn to take what life throws at you and make the best damned thing out of it!”

With that, she had stridden outside, leaving the dazed, grumbling sorcerer alone.

Eventually, Zargothrax had to swallow his pride and admit that the healer was right. It did not do well to wish death for oneself, even in such circumstances. The survivor’s guilt, however, did not give a damn about what he thought, and it most certainly did not care for the opinion of others. It hated being silenced; all it wanted was to tear at one’s being with all the might its icy claws had; tear a way right into one’s heart and settle there for life.

The only way out, he had found, was to forcefully replace it. Guilt was maybe a powerful emotion, but, just like any other feelings, it could be forced out by something else, and one only had to be persistent enough to do it.

Even despite being a necromancer, one of the most disgusting things in the world he could think of was _brain_. Physical, actual, real brain – human or otherwise. The brain was a big, squishy lump of fat that, once removed from the skull, dripped substances you did not want anywhere on you or your clothes. To top it all, bodies that had arrived at the crypts serving as quite peculiar classrooms for him and his fellow students had normally not been of the first freshness – if they were fresh at all – and everything, _just about everything_ about them, but especially the big, squishy lump of fat in their head, stunk to high heaven.

The teacher had been unfazed as, on the very first lesson, she opened the skull of a hanged man executed earlier that day, while declaring she believed in learning by observation and practice, rather than reading dusty old books, and held up the glob for every student to see. It had been… an experience, to say the least, and most students were glad they had had no time for dinner before descending into the crypts, for there would have been nothing left in their stomachs anyway; not after they beheld the dangly, gooey mess. *

That, however, had been _nothing_ against the first time Zargothrax had had to perform a similar feat himself.

Necromancy was clearly one of the disciplines that you had to have the stomach for and where being a “gifted student” did not even count towards the effort if you run off to empty your stomach and never returned.

Gods, there had been so much of… well… _everything_ squishy and gooey, and slimy and waxy, and stomach-churning, and he shuddered with disgust every time that memory resurfaced. It had been the reason a lot of students did not return for the next lesson, and the teacher was clearly using it to sort out those who had the gut to dwell deeper into the arts of necromancy, from those who did not. She wanted to see results, not just people “visiting cemeteries on their play dates”, the way she put it, plain and simple, as she walked them back in twilight like an ancient, beautiful ghost floating in front of her (rather earth-bound and greenish) group of students who had just been baptized by fire.

Right now, however, that shudder of absolute disgust as Zargothrax recalled, this time on purpose, how his fingers sunk into the squishy, slimy texture of what was a human brain already decomposing, was just what the healer had ordered. He had discovered it by accident, when this particular memory took over his mind in moments ridiculously unsuitable for it and made it impossible to concentrate on anything else. Not even guilt had a chance to withstand against the overwhelming repulsion that rolled in with those memories.

It allowed for easier categorizing of all things that had to be thrown away or stashed on the farthest shelf in his memory, and all Zargothrax had to do for it to work was to replace the memory – or, in this case, feeling, with the memory of his fingers sinking into the squishy substance and the sickening sound that accompanied it, and, within a couple of days, his own brain was already doing it by itself. Fastest he had experienced a memory being replaced this way had been literal minutes after the original even had taken place.

_Got an embarrassing memory to forget? Train your brain to replay that really, really disgusting one whenever it makes its way into your mind, and you will never have to think of it again._

_As long as you are okay with the really disgusting one, that is._

_Everything gets stashed away neatly, either to forget or to deal with when you feel capable of it._

The healer seemed sceptical of this method; one could easily tell that from the facial expression she kept while Zargothrax explained such quaint nuances of how the human mind worked, but she nevertheless appeared content with such, as she called it, unorthodox method. As long as it helped, anyway.

“As long as you’re not sitting here, wallowing in that self-pity of yours,” she had said, and, with that, the topic was closed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that, children, is how LadyTroll copes with shit.  
> _______________  
> * When thinking about the first lesson in the crypt, I want you to imagine something similar to the autopsy scene from 'Dead and Loving it'.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: I borrowed the healer from one of my original things. I toned it down a bit, and changed their gender and race, because unleashing a troll on poor, unsuspecting Zargothrax would probably end with the lad dying of a heart attack, which, while funny, would lead the whole plot to a nope.

As it finally turned out, the healer’s home was a nondescript house in the woods, as though its owner did not like interacting with people on a regular basis – and, truth to be told, she probably did not like interacting with people on a regular basis. A quaint construction, surrounded by a thick shrubbery, simple travellers who passed by it without any knowledge of the area would have never guessed there was a building there, unless they wandered right into the yard, and even in that case it was unlikely they would realize what exactly they saw.

Of course, it had looked like a regular house at some point. Maybe even a cottage. Quite probably. Possibly. Maybe. Long ago, and it was a lie.

Whatever the building had been called before, the right word that fit it now was simply – a cave. For, all things considered, it reminded more of a cave than anything else. Built of stone and covered in what was most likely layers of moss that nobody had bothered to remove for at least a decade, if not longer, it had long become one with the forest, with the only thing to distinguish it from the regular piles of boulders that nature had deposited all over the area quite generously being the fact that _this_ pile of boulders had smoke rising from a chimney (quite possibly the only thing about the building that still knew what the word “cleaning” meant). Trees had long ago begun taking the site over, and in one corner of the single room inside the floor had risen, accommodating the knotted roots of a tall pine that had no idea what the words “private space” meant, while a languished willow led a miserable existence by a small artificial pond where water was no longer visible under a layer of algae.

The only window was the sole thing that the moss and vines otherwise covering the house had yet to overtake, like a single shiny reminder that somebody still lived here. Inside, even with the curtain drawn, the room was permanently wrapped in twilight, and large tallow candles served as a source of light during the day, alongside a fireplace that was never permitted to go out, regardless of season. In this light, one could make out rows of dried herbs, roots and berries hanging at the ceiling, their smell floating about the house at all times. During the day, the songs of birds staying in the land over winter found their way inside the house. During the night, the family of mice that inhabited the small space between the wall and the old cupboard full of bottles and cups of different sizes, all neatly sealed and stashed away, went about their business, exploring the space they shared with the strange, large creatures and feasting on the little bits and pieces of food the healer left for them near their den, and one night Zargothrax awoke due to the uncanny feeling that somebody was watching him, only to discover one of the little critters seated right next to his face, the mouse’s little whiskers moving, as it examined the strange human with curiosity. Goblin, bless his little cat soul, did not appear too fazed by the presence of the mice in the house – _or on the bed, for that matter_ \- proving once again that he was a miserable example of a house cat.

Just like the house, its owner herself was of an indeterminable age as well, her hair of a rich chestnut colour, like a young girl’s, while her sun-burnt, freckled face showed wrinkles and small bags under her eyes. Rough, calloused hands and strong arms spoke of years of physical work to provide for herself out here. A deep frown appeared to have settled on her face for life, as the default expression, and yet there was kindness to her words when she willed it so. A harsh woman, adjusted to a harsh life outside the comforts of large cities, towns and even villages, she spent the autumn days preparing for the coming of the winter while attending to the local peasants who time and again dropped by for cures or just advice on how to take care of a sick child or an ill spouse, and, somehow, through all the sharpness and the bite her tongue had, she would explain to them, patiently, how things should be done, how many times to take one or another medicine from her supplies, and how to keep the ill person out of harm’s way, as they chatted, seated on a stone bench outside that was as mossy and blended in as the rest of the building.

Now, normally, those who could not use magic treated a wizard with at least an ounce of respect, as the belief was strong among the peasants that sorcerers knew if and when people talked about them. Not that most of them _did_ \- in fact, those were rare cases and relied solely on forefeeling that was considered imprecise at best and superstition at worst – but keeping that belief going had been convenient for many reasons. After the Auchtermuchty massacre, however, those beliefs had been all but extinguished.

Much to Zargothrax’s initial disappointment, however, the healer had never believed such nonsense in the first place. Bossy, sharp-tongued, fussy individual she was, who spat everything she thought, into the face of the people she thought it about – which included her patient as well, bringing a change into his life like he had never thought would occur. To top it all, as soon as she had deemed the young sorcerer healed just enough, she had set about creating a routine for him, looking not as much to get some help around the house as creating a distraction for him from any, as she put it, ridiculous thoughts that could come into that wizard’s head of his.

Most of the time, it worked. He even enjoyed the small errands he had to run for the healer. They kept his mind busy and distracted from the events that had occurred, and most of the time he was too tired to dwell on them – or just about anything – in the evenings. Sometimes, the healer asked him questions about life in the city, about his friends and teachers. She inquired about his studies and what his friends had chosen to do with their craft, and Zargothrax felt that, as time passed, it became easier to pick up these subjects.

Perhaps all that was needed was just the chance to talk it through, instead of stashing everything away in one’s heart where it festered like an infected wound.

***

Flames crackled in the fireplace, the sound soothing to his ears, the light they gave off not bright enough to hurt. Alas, the healer had been unable to determine the exact reasons for the pain that, according to her, at least, should have subsided and, eventually, ceased along with the wound healing. She theorised that there must have been something else, aside from the blade that had caused the injury. Poison, perhaps, for it was not rare that weapons were coated in one, especially in treacherous manoeuvres such as the raid on Auchtermuchty had been.

It was a mere memory from years ago that triggered the sudden sorrow and nostalgia for home; a simple coincidence when every scent, every sound and every feeling fell together just right, and suddenly there was a small, dark kitchen in an old, but well-kept house that had been handed down in the family for generations. A memory so vivid it felt like he could just reach out and touch the man sitting on a bench at the open fireplace, carving a long piece of wood into something that had yet to assume certain form, or the woman who was bowed over her lace pillow, her craft comparable, if not superior, to magic, as she wove lace as delicate as frostwork on window glass in winter, into being.

The door opened, carrying a cold, fresh breeze of wind along, and the memory dissolved into evening air, the moment lost. The healer slammed the door shut, crossed the room and began shuffling through the herbs she had left on the table to dry off before they could be prepared for the winter, water dripping from the thick woollen cloak she was wearing.

\- What’s on your mind, boy?

He must have looked quite distraught at the sudden change, Zargothrax concluded, since the woman was able to tell.

\- Well? It ain’t for nothing that you look so lost. Hardly think it’s your head acting up?

\- I should go see my parents, - the sorcerer threw the last piece into the bowl and set the knife aside, - or at least send them a message. They must be out of their minds from worry.

\- Oi, bad idea, bad idea! The prince doesn’t know _who_ escaped. Far as the rumours go, it was a great, ancient wizard, – the healer dropped another basket on the floor next to the “great, ancient wizard”, and set about removing her cloak and hanging it next to the fireplace, to dry. Zargothrax groaned; had somebody told him a few months ago that he was going to spend this time of year cutting up mushrooms, he would have laughed in their face. – Rumours tend to get exaggerated, but, right now, they’re your best friend. I had the pleasure to meet some of the magisters once, - she continued, as she handed the knife to the wizard again and patted his shoulder, - and what stuck up bastards they were, too! They most likely kept records of every student; this kind of people always do, and they’re not exactly shy about using it against their enemies. Wonder how they didn’t make all students swear loyalty to the Magistrate. Anyway, those records fall into McFife’s hands – and he’ll send out scouts to see if anyone’s been in contact with the families. That’s what I’d do, at least. If you don’t want them to end up in the dungeons of that accursed castle or, worse, dead, you’ll be wise to keep away from your parents, at least while the prince has any say around the kingdom.

\- Then McFife has to fall first.

\- Exactly, - the healer ruffled his hair, leaving the sorcerer grumbling. – Now, now, you can fix that once you’re done with this basket.

With a sigh, the sorcerer returned to his monotonous work.

It was the first time since the night in Auchtermuchty that this thought crossed Zargothrax’s mind.

_McFife must fall._

_And so must Ser Proletius._

_And the Hootsman._

He had to find a way to them. A way to reach them in their strongholds and cities, or, at the very least, a way to lure them out of their protective walls.

_And I will._

_By the gods, I will!_

\- But for now, mushrooms are where it’s at, lad! - the healer chimed in.

(Zargothrax could have sworn she could read his mind. That, or his face was just too expressive to hide what he was thinking about at the moment.)

Cutting up mushrooms was a task that did not require much brain power, leaving his mind free to wander.

He wondered whether that was it and he was really the only wizard left. With those in Auchtermuchty gone and McFife being dead set on getting to all the practitioners of magic in the kingdom, it seemed so. Martha had spoken of her family in the Highlands. The town she came from, she had said, while not big enough to be put on a map yet, was well-defended, by none other than her own kin and extended family. Hope remained, even though Zargothrax doubted they could withstand the onslaught of the Knights of Crail combined with the king’s forces.

Yet again, Auchtermuchty had been a surprise attack. A raid. He hardly believed that practitioners of magic elsewhere had heard of it and afterwards remained sitting with their hands in their lap. It was possible that most of whom the Magistrate knew of had already left the kingdom for good, and those that had no such option at the moment stayed well-hidden and did not show a sign of being anything else than the simplest peasants. Not to mention he had always doubted the Magistrate’s claim that they knew of all wizards out there. The Academy was a tool, to help one study magic, but, ultimately, it was not necessary for it. A plenty of sorcerers he had heard about had never set their foot in Auchtermuchty, for one or another reason, and Zargothrax did not doubt even for a second that there were more. After all, trades such as woodcutting, candle making and shipbuilding were passed down from parent to child in the family, so there was no reason magic could not be as well.

Ultimately, the question run down to whether Angus McFife only wanted to get rid of the sorcerers in Auchtermuchty, or if he was truly after every single one of them out there.

The young sorcerer cast a look into the corner where his half-finished staff stood, with its twisty, curved shape that reminded of a snake, its delicate carvings and its crown of branches, all of which reminded of a completely ordinary walking staff like so many peasants used while travelling. He had started on it a couple of days after his head had stopped giving him trouble, and, by the gods, did he curse every second he spent working on it, as his hands had seen more cuts over the course of the past weeks than they had in his whole life. The original staff, the one he received from his father upon departing, was left in his room back at the teacher’s house in Auchtermuchty, and had most likely ended up in a fire together with others, since they did not mean anything but pieces of wood to anyone ignorant of how to use them.

He wondered whether the prince and his allies had a way of telling those of magic apart from non-magic beings. Wizards could, but with no wizards to break their laws and join McFife, that option would lead the prince to a dead end; even if there were some who, somehow, for some reason, decided to break the rules, like hell would they know of him if he doused his magical aura. Time and again, he had heard the magisters talk about artefacts long lost that could help such cause, but nobody had ever set out to find them and they were treated as a legend at best. Most of the stories of such items were to keep young, inexperienced wizards from casting spells unsupervised anyway: “Haw, haw, the big bad magisters will see in their crystal ball that you’re doing magic.”

Two hours later, the only thing that had changed was that the population of mushrooms had at last completed their journey out of the baskets the healer hauled in, and into the jars lined up on the table, and the sorcerer still had no idea about what his next step should be.

\- Well, first of all, you can’t just go up against the royal house like that with no allies, - the healer waved the wooden spoon around like a weapon that she used to stir the jars, and Zargothrax had to avoid getting hit on the forehead with it. – You gotta plan first, boy. A lot of people have died for their cause, and a whole lot of those people rushed into battle without a plan. Why add to them? You need a plan, desperately so. Once you have that, you will have some sort of stability.

\- Allies? And where am I supposed to find _those_?

\- Answers come to people when they least expect it. Now, be a dear, hand me all that dill, will you?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You need a plan, but, in the meantime, you can continue cutting up those mushrooms.


	4. Chapter 4

First time the healer had sent him to the village, there had been looks and whispers, especially when people noticed the (really not subtle at all) scar on his face. Just like it was accustomed in any small community where a stranger appeared. However, just like in any small community where a stranger appeared, the folks accepted the explanation that he came from a village a couple of leagues to the east, visiting a friend every now and then, just like they had accepted the story of a barfight gone terribly wrong when they inquired about the scar. Right now, they perceived him as one of their own, bothering very little about the stranger’s presence.

Had they known who Zargothrax really was under the enchantments he used to stay under the radar, he was certain they would not have been as nice to simply ignore him.

It was the reasons the healer never did invite any of the peasants who came by looking for cures into her house when they dropped by while the sorcerer was there. Unfortunately, she had been right: the raid on Auchtermuchty had, indeed, been framed as a necessary evil to keep the Kingdom of Fife safe from a war between the wizards and the regular mortals, as well as to prevent the simple folk from getting enslaved by practitioners of magic.

To achieve this goal, no lies were deemed too nasty, and thus Zargothrax learned that he and his colleagues had performed dark rituals, overseen by himself, in person, to summon elder gods and other monstrosities, and that the valiant Knights of Crail, led by the Grand Master Proletius, had surprised them in the middle of a blood ritual in which ten pure, innocent virgins had been bled dry in the middle of an elaborate spell circle, and that Prince Angus McFife himself had been the first to rush to their help, managing to save but one girl, who now resided safely in the citadel of Dundee where she was tended to by the best physicians the land had ever seen.

Needless to say, after such relay of the events, the attitudes towards practitioners of magic were at an all-times low, and, from the way the peasants spoke of it, it was clear to the young sorcerer that, should they learn of his true identity, he would end up hanging by his neck from the nearest tree much faster than the prince would learn of his existence.

Incidentally, during such conversations, he also learned of the existence of a few groups of rebels in the area. They were, by no means, wizards or their supporters, just people who were troubled – or jealous of the thought that McFifes ruled the land for what they considered too long for any family to have such power. Alas, Zargothrax needed allies, and seeking out the rebellion was, so far, the best idea he could think of. Even if they had been fooled by the rumours just as these peasants were, the sorcerer doubted the rebels were in a position to decline help from such powerful source.

The village was small, not to mention dirty at this time of year, and one had to take care where they set step, lest they ended up lying in a puddle. Thick layer of mud caked the streets, making them look even more like countryside roads that somebody had built homes around because they thought it made for the perfect place of living, as long as you were not afraid of getting your feet dirty all year round. Zargothrax assumed that would make sense, at least from the peasants’ point of view. Just like the random dogs wandering the settlement, their fur just as soiled with mud as everything else here, as they dug through the layer of dirt to deposit whatever bones and other table scraps they had stolen from the humans, and a couple of scruffy, starved-looking cats that made the wizard glad that Goblin was with him, instead of back in Auchtermuchty where the animal would have, without a doubt, seen a similar or worse fate.  
A couple of cows having escaped their enclosure earlier that day had been wandering the streets until they got tired and decided to lie down, giving their owners a chance to put a rope around their horns and lead them back where they belonged. Which was quite a feat to accomplish, even in dry weather, let alone in conditions as horrid as these, as the bovines did not care for being led back to their warm, dry barn and considered the patch of grass as luxurious as the queen’s bed. Zargothrax watched, bored, as a couple of farmers struggled with their livestock, their feet slipping in mud as one of the cows stood her ground and absolutely refused to be dragged back home, the animal’s hooves digging into mud, breaking the gait and causing one of the men to slip and fall. The ordeal caught many an eye, and other peasants soon gathered around them, whistling and shouting encouragements and advices, and the insolent bovine appeared to enjoy the attention as well as the fact it got to drag its owner through mud for a change, as it trotted off with the farmer in tow who still refused to let go of the rope. The peasants cheered, and even the sorcerer could not help but to let out an amused snort before he turned to leave.

Luck was on his side, it seemed, for the lazy winter sun had breached the clouds for a short moment only, but it was enough for a ray of sunshine to reflect off of a polished steel surface, the light searing into his eye – thankfully, the right one. Had the circumstances not been as benign, Zargothrax would have most likely walked right into the three soldiers standing a couple of meters to his left, also enjoying the show greatly, making remarks about dumb cattle still being more intelligent than their handlers.

 _Of course, they would send regular soldiers to check on small, forsaken places such as this one,_ the wizard breathed with relief when, after the initial shock had passed, he dared sneak another peek at the men and realized the soldiers were, indeed, not the Knights of Crail, and that they were none the wiser about him being there than they had been before. Had they even seen him turn around and look the other way, he would most likely have appeared to them just another peasant searching for somebody in the crowd.

It took quite the courage to remain where he was, after noticing the soldiers, instead of bolting right out of there, and with each passing second it felt as though they were about to notice something weird about him and understand, and make their move to capture the insolent wizard hiding right under their nose. As he made his way down the street together with the crowd of peasants returning to their previous business, Zargothrax thanked whatever entity had been smiling upon him the first time he left the healer’s house, for his decision to throw a spell on his cloak to mask the intricate embroidery, even if, at that moment, he did not as much want give away his status to regular folks as he wanted to get his errands done without attracting much attention from the villagers. His experience of blending in with the crowd, mastered along the way as numerous of his jokes had gone south or backfired, now came in handy as well, and even to the king’s soldiers he looked as much a peasant as the whole crowd did at the moment – just a regular fellow out and about on daily business.

The trio attracted quite the attention to themselves, as they walked down the main street, following the crowd and headed towards the village elder’s house. They chatted aloud and made a show of being there, pushing a couple of farmers out of their way when they did not move as fast as the soldiers would have liked them to.

Apparently, nobody had informed them that missions to find runaway wizards had to be carried out in stealth, lest the wizard in question learned they were there.

Zargothrax turned around the corner and made a dozen steps down the narrow passage between the homes before stopping, his back to the wall as he held his breath, the bag he carried now clutched to his chest. Heart felt like it was about to jump from his chest, and, to him, his heartbeat seemed loud enough to be heard on the main street as well.

The three soldiers passed by without paying attention to anything around them.

_Pride of the king’s army._

The sorcerer let the last group of peasants pass by, before he returned on the main street. The amulet around his neck was scalding, the heat burning through clothes, and Zargothrax hoped, rightfully so, that it was not going to burn through them physically, while he simultaneously thanked himself for being the oblivious sod to forget his staff at home, for he was not sure the events would not have taken a different turn had he had it on his person. The temptation to, at the very least, _hex_ the three cunts, if not outright kill them, would have been too great to resist otherwise, had he had the chance to fasten the amulet where it was more useful.

Soon, the village was left behind his back, as Zargothrax made his way towards the forest and the healer’s humble house. At the border of the fields, he had the luck to see a seething farmer caked in mud and other not-so-nice substances all over like he had spent the afternoon rolling around in a ditch behind an outhouse. Following the fellow was a content-looking cow chewing on a mouthful of really late (or just really confused) autumn flowers.

The young sorcerer had made it past the tree line when his legs gave in and he slid down, with his back against a tree, hugging his knees to chest, as he shivered like a leaf.

***

Goblin purred up a storm, rubbing against the master’s legs and going out of his way to bother the wizard while Zargothrax tried to figure out how to close the damned bag. It was as though, despite being blind, the cat knew something was up and that there was road waiting ahead.

Zargothrax had already spent too long in this place. A couple of months had trickled by, as the healer insisted that he stay there until she deemed him capable of handling the journey that lay ahead, and the cold, foggy autumn had turned into not a bit less cold winter with little snow and lots of downpours of icy rain instead that hammered against the roof of the house even through the crown of the trees with enough force to make one think pebbles were raining from the sky. It brought a cold shiver down his back just imagining being stuck on the road in a weather like this, but the young sorcerer had decided he could not possibly extend his presence at the healer’s home any longer. Doing so would mean to put her in danger, especially after he had spotted the soldiers in the village yesterday.

\- Do you at least have a plan? – the healer demanded, hands on her hips, and the look she graced the wizard with was quite sceptical.

\- There are groups of rebellion out there.

\- Yes, that does tell me an awful lot.

Before Zargothrax could answer, Goblin saved the situation, by headbutting his leg, meowing and almost succeeding in tripping the wizard over when the latter picked up his staff and moved towards the door.

\- Goblin, no, - the sorcerer stopped and crouched, and the cat attempted to crawl onto his lap. – No, you’re staying here.

The blind cat purred, being scratched behind his tattered ear, and rubbed against Zargothrax’s leg, before getting picked up and purring even louder, his head against the sorcerer’s cheek.

\- Are you sure? – the healer tilted her head. – He’s good for you. Good influence. You need to work on your temper, might end up hurting somebody otherwise.

\- I can’t possibly take him with me, - Zargothrax pretended he had not heard the last part. – He’s not made for life outside, even less for one on the road or in some dark, damp cave. And, if I do end up getting caught, they’ll just leave him there and he’ll starve to death. He belongs in a house, at a fireplace, he’s already seen enough in his life.

Goblin was purring loudly; _by all the gods, why did he have to purr so loud?_ It made things at least ten times harder. There was something wet running down the wizard’s cheeks, and there was something that, to his ears at least, sounded suspiciously like suppressed sobs, and he had to hide his face in Goblin’s fur to muffle them, and Goblin’s whiskers tickled his skin as the cat licked his hand, wishing to provide consolation in whatever distress had caused his human to behave this way.

The cat struggled, being handed over to the healer. Zargothrax sunk his fingers into the rough fur and sent a trickle of calming energy into the small body, feeling how the animal ceased his attempts to escape and, instead, drifted off to sleep slowly, snuggled against the woman. He would waken, in a few hours, when his human was already too far away for a blind cat to follow.

\- Once this is over, - the wizard leant closer and scratched the cat’s head gently one last time, - I promise I’ll come back for you.

He did not believe that promise himself. There was too much, too many things that had to be done, and the wizard never believed he was going to live for long enough to see himself come back for the poor Goblin who had been crying his little cat heart out in the forest and whom Zargothrax had to thank for being found in a state in which, as the healer put it, it had been a miracle he had even made it this far, unicorns or no unicorns involved. In a way, the cat had returned his debt to the human, for Goblin himself had been found in less than suitable circumstances, for a cat. A rain water drain in a back alley in Auchtermuchty was hardly a place for a kitten, particularly a kitten fallen in the hands of what had most likely been a very cruel person, before ending up in said water drain.

\- Hey, - the healer rested the now sleeping feline on one arm, reached out with the other and stroke the young sorcerer’s cheek, the stubble rough under her hand as she wiped away the tear that had just fallen.

Zargothrax flinched as the hand came in touch with the long scar slicing across the left side of his face.

It did not hurt; in fact, it had stopped hurting long before, but the instincts screamed to avoid it, and the healer had assessed it was going to be so, for as long as the eye remained as faulty as it was.

\- Hey, - the woman smiled, her touch warm, almost motherly, - I know I’m a harsh old woman, so this doesn’t fit me, but I’m going to say it anyway: I feel you’re going to do great things, lad. Just don’t run into battle headfirst. That gets people killed.

\- Thank you. For everything.

\- I’m glad I could help you.

The door closed behind his back, and suddenly Zargothrax was very aware of the fact that he was alone and facing something he himself was not exactly ready for.

It was a scary feeling. Up until now, even during the escape from Auchtermuchty, there had always been somebody there. Back home, there had been his family. In the city, there had been Martha and Jacques. There had been his teachers, regardless of how strict they might be. There had been friends. Even during the escape, there had been Goblin and later also the unicorn. There had been the healer.

And now… now there was nobody but himself. And it was a terrifying realization. He in no way felt like he was ready for whatever lay ahead. Just a couple of months ago, all he had to worry about was passing the final exam instead of making a fool out of himself, and then choosing what he wished to do with his life from there on.

Hardly any person, wizard or not, freshly out of school had a “kill: The Prince of Fife; the Grand Master of Crail; and the King of Unst” on their to-do list.

Zargothrax took a deep breath. He was going to think about that later. Right now, the rebels awaited. The peasants in the village tavern where he had picked up a couple of bottles of local transparent schnapps for the healer’s tinctures and remedies yesterday had spoken of caves to the north. Nobody was sure there were actually rebels there – could be bandits, for all they knew – but there had been people spotted there earlier in the week that appeared to have settled down there.

That was where the wizard was – or at least thought he should be headed.

Perhaps he was going to get lucky and not be killed on sight, in the case he did find the rebellion before the Knights of Crail or the king’s troops found _him_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so, the story begins.  
> __________________  
> I am not saying this was my best writing as a whole. Far from it. Oh well.


End file.
